“I’m on my third cup,” I say as I down the last of my chocolate cream cold brew. As much as I dislike the corporation that is Starbucks, they do come up with some fucking good, yuppie coffee drinks.
My coworkers look at me, a mixture of awe and intense worry. I’m sure they’re pondering when exactly an intervention is appropriate. “Dang, Guillermo, do you sleep?” one asks.
“Not well,” I respond. “Not well at all.”
It wasn’t always like this. There was the time that coffee disgusted me. I call that the sweet innocent era of Willie. Before I had people refer to me by my first name. Before I stepped into the library world. Before I worked with children.
I remember the first time I had the sweet elixir that is coffee. How I started off with the easy stuff before moving onto the heavier brews.
Trust me. I’ve tried to quit. But I’m not a fun person to be around when I do. I’m hardly a fun person period, so you can imagine how I am without.
I’m sorry, what was the question?